


And Then There Was Colour

by skywalkings



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Comfort, Comforts of Home, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), Secret Admirer, Spider-Verse, also nic cage is valid in this role and this role only, he just likes her ok, i listened to a lot of postmodern jukebox writing this ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-09-29 18:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17209067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkings/pseuds/skywalkings
Summary: She reminds him of home, with her jewelled dresses and passionate voice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agitatedstates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agitatedstates/gifts).



> i only joined ao3 to follow my friend Jayde, for whom this is dedicated, but i smashed out this little fic after listening to a LOT of post-modern jukebox. anyway, colour descriptions innthis are purely for the audience, my dude can’t see colour for SHIT

He feels inclined to visit more often after meeting her.

There is this girl in a downtown bar, who sings with a tone and command that demands attention from every soul in the room. He is captivated when he first hears her voice, perfectly enunciating each word and vowel with nothing short of passion. The performer is the spitting image of any successful artist back home, with a wide range and an obvious zeal for her craft. Her eyes, glassy and wide, stare out into the space above the warm yellow lights of the club as she performs. Every now and then she will clamp her eyes shut, lost within the twinkling piano and elegant violin, and her hands will ghost the side of the microphone as if it were the face of a gentle lover. Her voice, a beacon of emotion, rises above the piano, and as she pours her heart into every note he can feel something. A swelling in his heart, a feeling of comfort, a pleasant reminder of home in a place so far removed from what he considers normal. As she sings and sways gently, the jewels on her dress glimmer in the club lights, and for a few brief moments she is composed only of light and song. Discovering her was nothing short of fate. And Peter (or this Peter, at least) was not a big believer in fate or destiny, but this made him consider - ever so briefly - such a possibility.

He first slips into the club on a whim while visiting his direct counterpart - Peter B. Parker - in his universe. This whole universe-jumping, alternate timeline thing does take its toll every now and again, but the future - or Peter's version of the future, at least - is whimsical and colourful, and it enchants him even further upon each new visit. There is nothing more fascinating to him than exploring his counterparts' universes, all bursting with colour and different forms of life. Of course, fitting into any of their universes is difficult, considering his paper-white skin, but the wonders of foundation can blend him in, even the slightest bit.

Peter and Peter - who, for the sake of understanding, we will call Noir and Peter - sit in at the club on a chilly Wednesday night, watching the woman coolly performing a song in French with ease and confidence. This is the third time they have visited the club in a week, and Peter is watching as Noir scribbles a note onto a piece of paper hastily, looped cursive barely illuminated in the dull lights of the club. The latter's eyes dart back and forth between the sheet of paper and the woman, making certain that she doesn't notice him.

He can feel Peter's eyes watching him, peering at the note as Noir attempts to keep it concealed by his elbow.

“What are you doing?” His counterpart asked, still attempting to look over his shoulder.

"Just writing," Noir replied, dodging the knowing in Peter's question.

"You know, for someone who's essentially me, I'm not surprised that you're also terrible at acting nonchalant," The latter sniggered, "Are those for the woman?"

"Well, I'll be the first to admit talking to women, men, anyone I'm interested in...It's never been a strong point,"

"You and me both," Peter nods, clapping a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, "But we're both Parker's. We have a boyish charm that some people seem to like. You should talk to her,"

"Look, I've left notes the last few times we were here," Noir admits sheepishly, "I don't know if she gets them or not. But it's easier to compliment her on paper than, well, to her face," He shrugs, and he folds the note away, gazing back over to the singer as the lights dim, the hiss of the cymbal the only noise coming from the stage as the audience politely claps.

As the darkness envelopes the room, the visitor feels the similar lurch of his body ripping itself apart, particles dancing violently as he glitched. The feeling was awful, and for a few brief moments there is no pain greater than that. When the glitch subsides, he groans, gripping the side of the table for support as his breathing becomes ragged.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you home," Peter murmurs in his ear, helping his friend stand. Noir reaches into his coat pocket and dispenses the note onto the table as the lights raise once more, and the singer begins thanking the crowd in her warm, inviting tone. 

Little does Noir know, when he leaves his spot, her eyes drift to his table, disappointed at its emptiness.

 

Noir visits again three weeks later, once he is comfortable in the knowledge that home is relatively safer than it had been three weeks previously. When he arrives, it is a rainy Wednesday night, and once he anchors himself to Peter's apartment, he is eager to get back to the club and watch the woman performing.

He goes without Peter this time, but his advice echoes in his head. He entertains the thought of approaching the singer that night, but he banishes the thought when he feels his legs shaking at the very idea. He sits at his usual spot, partway through her set, and he smiles as she performs. The song is more upbeat than usual, with a quickened drum and smooth guitar. Her voice rises above the instruments, singing longingly as she steps from foot to foot. She wears a gorgeous silk wine-coloured dress that hugs her short, curvy frame. It is accentuated by a cream faux-fur wrap that hangs around her waist and on her elbows. Classic is the first word that comes to mind when he sees her, and just as he smiles at her energy her eyes scan the audience and stop at him, blinking. As she continues to sing, a playful gleam sparks in her eyes, and Noir realises with growing anticipation and dread that she is leaving the stage. 

The woman sways as she walks, owning each pair of eyes that follow her, and she directs her song to a few chosen audience members every so often. The music slows for a moment, and as it does she breaks the heart of one patron and floats over to Noir.

"If you wanna be with me, I could make your wish come true," She flirts, taking a seat across from him. Her eyes remained trained on him, and he realises he has never noticed how brilliantly brown they are. They sparkle in the dim lights, both brilliant and warm like glasses of fine dark whiskey, "You gotta make a big impression, I gotta like what you do," and as she sings she leans across the small table space and runs his tie through her fingers, bringing him closer. Her breath remains calm, but his has increased, and he can feel the whisper of sweat on his forehead. She easily moves from her seat around to him, squeezing his shoulders as she coos, "I'm a Genie in a bottle, baby, gotta rub me the right way, honey,"

She continues her song as she motions away from him, walking in time with the song. She stamps her foot along to the hardening drum beat, and when she reaches the foot of the stairs, she eyes him, begging, "I'm a Genie in a bottle, baby, come on and let me, come on and let me out," Her voice soars brilliantly on the last few notes, and Noir dabs at his forehead, listening to the crowd’s clapping as she curtsies. Had she really just-? Was that-?

He watches the rest of her set with a running imagination. Did that mean something? Anything?

Before long, her set is over, and the next performer is on their way up. Noir stays behind for a few moments, but with the woman gone he no longer has a reason to stay, so he motions to the stairs.

As he begins down them, smiling to himself as he thinks of the encounter, a voice stops him.

"Sorry to throw you in there," The woman says, and Noir turns to gaze at her. She has changed into a more relaxed outfit, and she carries a bag at her side, faux fur wrap peeking loosely out, "But I haven't seen you in a while. I missed having a regular around,"

"I'm a regular, huh?" he asks, surprised. 

"I'd consider you one," She admits, sticking out her hand, "I'm Dotti, by the way,"

Taking her hand perhaps a little too fast, Noir says awkwardly, "Peter. I'm Peter. Parker. Peter Parker,"

"Okay, Peter Parker," Dotti giggles, and aside from her singing it is one of the best things he has ever heard, "Did you leave me these?" And she fishes through her bag, bringing out three neatly folded notes sealed away in a zip-loc bag. Noir can feel his cheeks heat up, and he gapes at the bag almost silently.

"I- those are- well I-"

"Peter, are these yours or not? Should I be thanking you or your counterpart?" 

"Mine,"

"Lovely," She smiles, satisfied as she puts them away, "So, I finally know who my secret admirer is. I was hoping it was you. You're...Well, you're quite cute," Dotti admits, walking down to him. She stops on his step, and he realises how much shorter she is than him, and it is both adorable and attractive that such a small package has so much dominance over him. Her eyes gaze into his softly, "The letters mean a lot. Really. They really boosted my confidence,"

"You're a great performer," He tells her, "And you have a lot of energy and talent and-and you're gorgeous and-"

"Oh!" She interrupts, and he swears her cheeks go pink, "Oh that- Peter you're-" She clears her throat, as if ridding herself of her startled nature, and she regains her composure, "Peter, you're very sweet,"

"I...I hope this isn't too forward," He begins, "But may I walk you home?"

She smirks, “Well, I’m all the way in Brooklyn. It’s a far walk,”

He begins to stutter, unsure of what to do, “Oh, well-“

“I’m just pulling your leg, honey,” She interrupts, smiling sympathetically, “Sorry,”

Noir rubs the back of his neck, “I’m not the best at this whole...Flirting thing, I’m sorry,”

“Well, I am,” and Dotti takes his hand, leading him downstairs, “It’s a nice night out. We can take the subway and walk across the bridge? Unless you have somewhere to be,”

“Not at all.” he answers breathlessly, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that she actually enjoys his company, and he decides that he likes the way her hand fits into his own.

“Wonderful!” 

The pair’s journey back to Dotti’s apartment takes little over an hour, based purely on the fact that they click almost instantly. It takes him a while to come out of his shell, but once he does he is more confident and comfortable around her. By the time they reach her apartment, it is almost midnight, and the night air has a slight breeze to it. They are so lost in conversation that she almost forgets to stop, but she halts suddenly and grabs his hand, walking backward.

“This is me,” She says, turning at the foot of a building. She begins her steps, looking back to him, “Would you like to come inside, Peter? I make a great egg cream,”

He is certainly tempted, but he looks warily at his watch, reminding him that it is getting late.

“Maybe another time, Dotti, I’d better get home,”

“Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“I’m good to walk,” He replies, and he goes to leave, unsure of what to say, but he stops. He shakes when he speaks, eyes avoiding her own, “It was really nice talking to you,”

“Don’t you wanna spend any more time with me?” She asks, feigning hurt, and Noir claps a hand against his forehead.

“No, no it’s not that-“

“Honey,” She says, walking back down the steps. She leans up and takes his hand from his face, “I was pulling your leg. Would you rather me stop?”

“For now,”

Dotti smiles up at him, “No problem,” The young woman leans up on her tippy-toes, holding his hand in her face, and Noir leans his head down slightly to help her. Still on her tippy-toes, she places a soft kiss upon his cheek, and he feels his face burn as she pulls away, still grinning at him, “You have my number. Give me a call sometime, hmm?”

“Yes, yes I- I will yes I promise, darling- DOTTI yes-I-promise.” he replies in a flounder, tripping over his words as she pulls away and heads inside.

Dotti disappears inside, and Noir stands dumbfounded at the foot of her steps, watching the door as if she would return and kiss him goodnight once more.

He debates knocking on her door and going inside, but he knows Peter will be wondering where he is.

Reluctantly, the visitor turns and begins his lonely journey home.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, look, you got her number, that’s great!” Peter grins as Noir sips his coffee.

"Yes, it's wonderful, but it's been a week and I still haven't called her back," Noir replies, sighing, "I don't know what to say to her, you know? I think you're sweet and gorgeous but I've gotta leave soon otherwise I'll spontaneously glitch and disappear. Oh, I'm also in all black-and-white,"

"Well, it doesn't help that you haven't called at all," Peter reminds him.

The city is bustling below them as the pair sits atop a building, taking in the early morning sunrise as it rises over the city. Noir’s is lifted above his lips as he sips, and Peter’s is fitted snugly on his face. The more disastrous of the pair stretches while his counterpart surveys the city below.

“Yeah, I remember when M.J. finally gave me her number. That was a good day,” He admits, “We recently got back to texting each other. Do you even know what an emoji is?”

“No idea,” 

Peter tsks, “Do you think Dotti uses emojis?” 

“Peter,”

“No, seriously, does she look like a human-face emoji person or a cat-face emoji person because that really differentiates one person from another-“

“No, no look!” Noir groans, pointing below him. The two Spider-Men can just make out the image of a truck overturning, wrapped in arms of golden sand. A man in a striped shirt stands atop the mound of sand, controlling it as the golden force wrenches the door of the truck open, “It’s Marko,”

“You have him back at home, too?” Peter asks, readying himself to swing down to the scene, “I haven’t seen him in a while. Wonder what he’s been up to,”

“Prison?”

“Probably,” 

The two heroes swing down to the scene of the crime instantly. Flint Marko has never been an easy opponent, but Noir briefly contemplates the idea that perhaps with both he and Peter, Marko will be easier to- Nevermind, Peter has just been thrown halfway across the block. "And who are you? Goth Spider-Man?" Marko sneers, eyes darting to Noir. "I guess you could say that," He replies. Noir and Marko battle it out, and once Peter joins it is a more even match. However the battle is still brutal, and Noir finds himself struggling to keep up with Peter. It all goes sideways when suddenly Noir feels a similar lurch in his stomach, and his whole body shifts and glitches on top of the crushed vehicle, making him collapse to his knees as Peter sends Marko on his way, the Sandman evaporating into the wind.

"Did you get him?" The visitor coughs, still shaky.

"Mostly. Well, he left. But the money's still here, so I'd call that a win. Do you need to be getting home, buddy? You don't look so good,"

"Tonight I'll go back," He reasons as Peter helps him up, "But do you mind if I invite Dotti over before I go?"

 

Noir stares down at the device in his hand, disntincly aware of its weight and the brightness of the screen, showcasing the numbers 555-2328 in sleek black lettering. He has not yet pressed dial, anxious to do so. What if she picked up?

“Keep it together, Parker,” He tells himself, hitting dial. The phone rings once, twice, and suddenly he hears her answer.

"Hey, Dotti, it's me,"

"Peter!" She squeals, "I was waiting-" and he hears her pause, trying to retcon her words, "I- why didn't you call me, huh?"

"Listen, I'm no-"

"Good with talking to people. I've come to understand," She finishes.

"...Are you angry?"

"What?" and she laughs on the other end, and the bristles of hair on his arms stand down as he relaxes, "Oh honey, of course not. I just..." and she sighs again, struggling to express herself. He simply switches subjects after the silence becomes too much.

"Would you like to come over to dinner?"

"Oh Peter, that would...That would be lovely," She replies, voice playful in the telephone, "Maybe you'll get a private concert, hmm?"

"You could sing the most garbage song and make it sound pretty, you know?" He says after a short moment, and he can hardly stop the words as they come from his mouth, but the reaction he gets makes it all worthwhile.

"You'll give me a toothache if you keep being so sweet."

 

Peter's apartment is small, and dirty, and the bedroom is not really a room, merely a mattress on a floor. But the kitchen is big enough to cook in, and as a pan of vegetables roast in the minuscule oven, Noir applies a layer of cream-coloured foundation, staring at his reflection in a spoon.

A knock breaks him from his concentration

"It's Dotti!" She calls from the other side of the door, her voice muffled. Noir hastily throws the foundation into a drawer, motioning to the door. He straightens up, pulling on his tie before opening the door.

Dotti gazes up at him with her wide eyes, and he remembers how much shorter she is than him. It is adorably delightful. He notices that she is grasping a brown paper bag in her arm.

“Hey, Peter,” She grins, “You look real handsome,”

“And you look lovely,” he smiles, “Come in,”

“Whatcha makin’?” She asks, fluttering over to the kitchen, “Smells real good, Peter,”

“Roast and vegetables. Something simple my aunt taught me,”

“A wise woman, I’m sure,” She replies, looking back over to him as she places the bag onto the table, “What’s she like?”

Noir smiles to himself and thinks back to his Aunt way back home, probably worrying about him. She’s not unlike Miles’ universe’s May - both feisty and headstrong, loving and supportive. 

“She’s a special lady. She raised me, she and my uncle Benjamin,” he says, observing the paper bag as she rolls it open , “What’s that?”

“Well, I make a mean egg cream. So I brought some ingredients along. You did say you liked them, right?”

Much like the other night, they fall into a tangent of conversation that spans much of the evening, over the course of dinner, and well into a couch conversation. On his second egg cream, he watches as Dotti shrugs off her cardigan.

“Muggy tonight, isn’t it?” She asks, leaning back into the sofa cushions, “Aren’t you warm in that blazer?”

“I’m not too uncomfortable just yet,” he replies. She smiles, shrugging as she sips on her drink from a red straw. Dotti is certainly a mysterious lady. She floats through conversation until a particular topic or memory comes up, then she seems to fall back to the earth. The way she stops talking, tries to refocus her thoughts, her persona. Maybe she’s hiding herself. He decides to take a bargain, “Dotti?”

“Yeah, honey?”

He blushes when she calls him honey, cheeks warming at her cool, confident voice. “I’ve noticed something about you. When we talk sometimes, when I say certain things, you...You shift yourself. Have you noticed that?” The woman avoids his gaze, and Noir continues cautiously, “I didn’t mean to offend, I’m sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it, it’s not my place,”

She still doesn’t look at him, electing to swirl her straw nonchalantly through her drink as she stares into the distance, “No, it’s not. But I forgive you, it’s just human instinct, basic curiosity,” she sighs, “I just...Got hurt. As we all do, sometimes. I try to stay as focused as possible. Not let people get too close. I don’t want them hurting me,”

Noir is silent for a few moments as he processes the information, thinking of the best way to respond. He settles on the following, “Well, if we don’t let people in, how are we supposed to connect with each other?” He muses, “I recently, uh, met this group of people. Completely by circumstance. And we kept...running into each other. And we were all from different places but we all had one thing in common, that being that we all wanted to protect those who can’t protect themselves,”

“Where did you say you worked, again?”

“Human rights...Stuff,”

“Alright. Continue,”

“Well, we worked together for a while. And previously I worked alone. And after meeting these people...I never knew how lonely I was. I never realised how much I don’t let other people in. Once I let these people into my life, though, they were- they are the closest friends I have. And I’m so grateful for them. So...To round things off...How are we supposed to have meaningful connections with others if we don’t open ourselves up?” He asks, “And it’s hard. Especially if you’ve been hurt before. But what other choice do we have? Be alone forever?”

Noir watches her as she places her drink on the coffee table, her eyes meeting his as she curls up on the sofa, “Have you been hurt before?”

“Not romantically, but yes,”

“Well. It’s different. This person, did they make you feel like junk about yourself?”

“No,”

“Did they make you look like an idiot? Tell you they loved someone else? And yet you still missed them?”

“...No,”

She sits back, sadly satisfied, “Then...Then it’s just- it’s just-“

“Difficult to let others in,”

“Yes!” She says, snapping her fingers at him, “It’s just difficult. And it’s not that I don’t want to let others in, it’s just that I don’t want to carry all this baggage into something new,”

“I understand,” he says, peeling off his jacket. He thinks to himself that perhaps that is the end of them, that for the moment they will not be anything more than friends. That his understanding of how she feels is the answer to the question of what they are. To him, that’s fine. If she isn’t ready, if she would never be ready, for now he is fine with that. She is his friend, and for now that is all that matters. A few beads of sweat have formed on his forehead, so he turns to fanning his face with his hand.

“I’m sorry, Peter,”

“You don’t need to be sorry for anything, Dotti. Things are complicated sometimes. Trust me, I’m the picture boy for complicated,”

“Oh, really?” She smirks, and he realises the mood has softened.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” he admits, feeling his chest begin to tighten. The feeling is familiar, the lurch and pain, but he tells himself it is only nerves. He hopes the feeling will go away before it manifests.

“You look really muggy. Did you want me to turn on the fan?” 

“What fan?”

Dotti gives him a strange look, gesturing to the corner of the apartment, “...The one over there?”

“Oh! That fan!” He manages after a short moment of panic, “Right I thought you meant the other fan. The ceiling fan,”

“There’s no ceiling fan, Peter,”

Goddammit.

“That’s right. Because I...Had it removed,”

“Removed?”

“Yep,”

The singer glares at him, suspicion clouding her gaze, and she leaves the sofa to turn on the standing fan. She reaches into her dress pocket and pulls a quilted hankerchief, handing it to him on the way.

“Here, you look like you need it,”

Thankfully, Noir wipes the fabric across his forehead, feeling the dampness of his sweat taken with the fabric.

He soon feels the warm breeze of the fan beating against his face, and the woman returns, smiling playfully as she speaks, “So, the picture boy for complicated. That’s an awfully 14 year old way to say things. Why is that? What do you do that makes you-" 

But her words stop, and Noir’s eyes dash upward as she stares at him, mouth agape, silent and wide-eyed. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he just knows what she has noticed. The sweat, the fabric, the foundation. Oh dear. 

Double goddammit.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, trying to remain calm.

“Peter,” She begins, stepping closer cautiously, “Why is your forehead in gray-scale?”

He still tries to keep calm, “What do you mean?”

“I- you-“ and she shuts up, snatching the hankerchief from his hands as she plonks down beside him. She stares at the previously pink fabric, now stained with creamy foundation, and her eyes snap back to his. She reaches out with the hankerchief, and he doesn’t edge away. He knew something like this would happen. He knew somewhere, somehow, he’d screw up. But why did it have to be with her?

She gingerly rubs his face, uncovering more of his skin, and she gasps, backing away.

“What are you?” She asks cautiously, “Why is your skin like that? Is it a medical condition? If it is- oh God it is, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, Peter, really. I’m so sorry-“

“No, Dotti, it’s not-“

And he feels the lurch again, but this time he can’t restrain it. He feels his very fibers alight in a blaze, his back straightens suddenly like a bolt of lightning as the firey energy rushes through him. He can feel his body flicker and glitch, and when it finishes he is collapsed against the coffee table, gulping for air.

Triple goddammit.

Dotti crouches beside him urgently, rubbing his back, “Peter, are you okay? Hey, talk to me. Do you need an ambulance? Peter, who’s the president?”

“I don’t know,” he croaks.

“Oh God you do need an ambulance,” he hears her feet softly, “I’m sorry, honey, really, let me help you up-“

“Dotti, I’m fine, really,” he assures her, pulling himself off the table. The woman goes to help him, and after a moment of fawning she sits beside him on the couch, itching to get up and call for help.

“You are most certainly not fine! What was that?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was a seizure,”

“I would not! That was no seizure! Jesus, Peter, you had me worried! Please, just tell me what’s wrong,”

Noir gazes back down at her, into her warm brown eyes, and he remembers when he first saw them. When she sang so beautifully, so full of life and passion. It puts him at ease for a moment, but he fears that this, this ‘episode’ has kicked the bucket of their could-be.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” He admits.

“Oh?” She asks, “Try me,”

“Well...You know how New York has Spider-Man?”

She squints at him cautiously, “Yes...”

“Well I’m Spider-Man,”

She guffaws, “You’re not Spider-Man, Peter. You’re in black-and-white. I’ve seen that guy’s chin before, it was not the colour grading of Casablanca,”

“Dotti, I am. Just not this universe’s Spider-Man,”

“Ok then, what universe’s?”

“I come from the 1930’s. It’s cold and rainy and everything is drained from colour. Including me,”

“And I’m just supposed to believe you?” She asks, “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes, I know it sounds weird but Dotti, I’m telling the truth!”

“Prove it,”

He does a double take, “Huh?”

“Prove it and I’ll believe you,”

First, he shows her his outfit. The coat, the hat, the suit. The black on black, the way it smells like rain and blood. She shrugs, and closes the closet door.

“Very gritty, but it’s not proof,”

He shows her his reflexes. She throws things past his ear, and he catches them every time. 

“Impressive. But I’m still skeptical,”

“Oh for the love of- listen, I’m getting changed. I’ll meet you on the roof in ten,”

“The roof?”

When Noir arrives on the roof, he spots Dotti standing near the edge, watching the bustling city below her. It’s a sight that never ceases to amaze Noir, at least not here, where everything is so colourful and bright.

“Peter, what are we do-?” She begins as she turns around, and her words falter as she stares at him. He looks at her worriedly.

“Is something wrong?”

“You look...So much more taller. Intimidating,”

“Are you frightened of me?”

“Not now. I know it’s you, but if I saw you swinging through the streets I’d probably piss myself,”

“Oh don’t worry,” he says, lifting his mask to just below his eyes, “It’s still be. Casablanca colour grading and all,”

“Thank you for that,” she says flatly, “You know, honey, when I first met you I didn’t think this is where we would end up,”

“Where did you think we would?”

Dotti looks back to him, smirking, “Well truth be told I thought you were quite nice. Handsome. Mysterious. So, my place. Or, more specifically, my bedroom,”

Noir’s cheeks flush once again, and he scratches the back of his neck as the hairs stand on end. How did she always have that affect on him?

“Right let’s get started!” He says after a moment of shy fumbling. Noir approaches the edge of the rooftop, feeling the warm night air, listening to the beeps and shouts as they carry up from the streets and walkways. The Spider-Man looks back to his counterpart, extending his hand, “Do you trust me?”

She shrugs, “Not really,”

He groans, “Co-operate with me, will you?” He asks, “You don’t have to trust me for anything else. You only have to trust that I won’t hurt you. Dotti, I promise you,”

There is a moment of hesistation, and he watches her debate with herself for a short time, but she gives in, stepping up beside him as she takes his hand.

“Okay,” He begins, scooping her into his arms with ease. He can feel her shaking, clutching at his jacket for support, and he whispers to her, “Do you want to stop? I shouldn’t have pressured you,”

“No, no I want to. I’ll trust you, just this once,” She tells him, and she wraps her arms around the back of his neck, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder, “Don’t let me fall,”

“I wouldn’t,” He promises, releasing one of his arms, and after a short personal countdown, he jumps off the roof.

The freefall only lasts a couple of seconds in real-time, but it feels so much longer to him. He feels the clutch of her arms against him, the way the air ripples trough his coat, and before they can hit the pavement he releases a burst of webbing, yanking the pair away from certain doom.

Before long, Noir is gliding through the city skyline, feeling the rush of air, the warm beating of the sun against his back as it sets. After a few buildings, he feels Dotti’s head raise curiously, and he looks to her ever-so-briefly. Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape in awe.

After a few moments, he pulls them up to a tall lookout. As he lands, sitting on the muzzle of a large, domineering lion, he begins to loosen his grip on the woman, but she clutches at him still.

“No, no letting me go,” she tells him, “I’m not falling off of here,”

He chuckles for a moment, “I’m sorry, if you want me to take you somewhere else-“

“No, no it’s nice,” She interrupts, head leaning on his shoulder. He feels her relax against him, hands still holding him, “The sunset looks pretty from here. All the colours, the way the orange fades into the pink,”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful,” Noir agrees, but his gaze isn’t on the horizon, it’s on her, and he knows that he isn’t talking about the sunset, “Dotti, listen, I’m sorry about lying to you. About who I really was,”

“I don’t blame you,” she admits, “You have a secret identity to keep up, Spider-Man,”

He smiles widely, “You believe me now?”

“Well I don’t think there’s any other explanation,” she admits, looking to him, “But why did you, like, what was that thing that happened? That little-?”

“Glitchy-thing?” He offers, and she nods, “Well, my body just rejects my being here. I mean, this isn’t my universe, after all. Let’s just say I’m this-universe intolerant,”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes. If I stay here too long I could die. I’ve actually gotta go home tonight, I don’t want to risk it for so much longer,”

“Oh, Peter, why are you here then?” She wails, “You like hurtin’ yourself or something?”

“I like visiting my friend Peter. But I like visiting you most,” 

“Oh honey,” she coos, stroking his cheek with the top side of her fingers, “Don’t go hurtin’ yourself for me. And this Peter fella, I’m sure he doesn’t-“ a look of blunt realisation passes over her face, “He’s Spider-Man, isn’t he? That guy you’re with?” She asks flatly.

“...You didn’t hear it from me,”

Dotti giggles, smiling up at him, “Peter, I like you. I really like you. But I can’t let you go gettin’ yourself hurt because of me. And you know, if things were different, I would be snappin’ you up. But I’m not- I can’t justify you hurtin’ yourself like this if I’m not gonna love you like I could if I weren’t where I am with myself right now. Do you get me?”

Noir smiles sadly at her, “I get you,”

“And I don’t know. I might not ever be ready again, I might be ready in three weeks or four days, but I’m not ready just yet. But tell you what, you leave your number with me. Or that Peter’s number with me. If I’m ever ready, if you still want me around, you return the call, okay?”

“Most certainly.”

They swing back to Peter’s apartment in silence, and the night ends in a gentle kiss on Noir’s cheek, and an entering of numbers into her phone. She leaves the apartment with a smile and a wave, and Noir shuts the door, thoughts remaining on the woman who has him wrapped around her finger.


	3. Chapter 3

Months pass by. Autumn turns to Winter, Winter into Spring. Noir visits Peter still, not quite as often, but still. 

He visits everyone. Ham, Gwen, Peni and Miles, all welcoming him with open arms and a newfound sense of family. These are the people he has needed for so long, and it’s good to see them whenever he can. To remind himself that he isn’t alone in all of this, his crime-fighting business.

Noir thinks about Dotti fondly every so often. Her voice, her eyes, the way she smiled at him. He isn’t angry or resentful about that night. In fact, he’s glad. It’s given him time to appreciate his friends and what they all mean to him.

The gray-scale Spider-Man thwips back into Peter B. Parker’s universe early in May. The air is sweeter, the city brighter, and everyone seems to be in a much more pleasant mood. Peter especially, who has now moved from his shabby apartment to a much nicer, shared apartment with MJ.

Peter greets him warmly, explaining that both he and MJ have been getting along much better, and that their relationship is blossoming once again. 

“That girl called you,” Peter tells him on the morning of his arrival. He says it over breakfast, snacking on a bagel with a steaming cup of coffee beside him, “Dotti, right? She was asking for you,”

“She was?” 

“Yep. You gonna give her a call?”

Noir doesn’t hesitate. His fingers shake as they punch the buttons on the phone, and as it rings he feels his stomach churn. But not in that horrible, glitching way. It churns with uncertainty. 

After a few rings, it picks up.

“Hello, Peter? Is Peter back yet? Or- or other Peter, you know which one I’m talking about,”

“Hey, Dotti, it’s Peter. Your Peter. Well, not-“

“Peter!” She exclaims, “Hey, honey! I missed you a lot. Did you want to get an egg cream? I know this cute little cafe over here if you wanna swing by,”

She seems so much warmer, so much more open and calm. It makes him smile so widely that his face hurts, and he realises just how happy he is for her.

“I would love that,” he replies into the receiver.

As promised, the gray-scale Spider-Man swings over to Brooklyn that afternoon. He jumps across brownstones and Burger King’s, swinging and leaping before landing on her doorstep.

The doorbell rings only once, and when it opens he is greeted by the sight of Dotti, who grins up at him widely. 

“Is that you, gray-scale?” She teases.

Noir lifts the bottom of his mask, revealing his skin, “It’s me, I promise,”

Dotti leans up on her tiptoes as he pulls his mask back down, and instinctively Noir leans down to help her. She giggles at this, resting her hands on his shoulders, “Thanks for waiting for me, Peter. I needed that,”

“I was happy to,” He admits, and the ways she looks at him is intoxicating, “I really missed you, too-“

Dotti silences him by gently pulling up his mask. His lips curl into a smile as her thumb brushes his bottom lip, and the way she looks at him so tenderly is enough to send him spiraling down a whirlpool of affection. She leans into him, and as his face longingly moves closer to hers she presses her lips against his own. He’s caught off guard for a moment for the sheer surprise of her wanting to, but after the shock dies down he leans into the kiss, cradling her body against his own. Her lips are soft, and they taste like sugared peaches. This is what he wanted. For so long. And now here she is, kissing him like she meant it, holding his hand and caressing his cheek. When she pulls away, she smiles, “I’m sorry to be so bold, but I wish I had kissed you at that lookout. I guess I just...Needed to get around to it,”

“That’s fine, Peach,” he replies.

“Peach?” She repeats, “Do I have a nickname, now?”

“Your lips, they taste like peaches,” he explains.

Dotti giggles at this, smiling appreciatively, “Well, why don’t you come inside, get changed, and we can go get that eggcream, huh?”

Noir senses that she feels comfortable around him, and it’s the first time he’s been able to be around someone and not feel constant dread. Things with Dotti are good, and they will remain as such for a long time.

Despite the difficulties of inter-dimensional travel, Noir does his best to visit her often, similarly, Dotti goes back home with him on the rare occasion as well.

Noir isn’t the best at admitting his feelings. But around his friends, around Dotti, it feels easy.

**Author's Note:**

> not that anyone cares but i thought that i'd include the songs i listened to on repeat while writing (and of course what was featured), all by postmodern jukebox of course:  
> \- last friday night  
> \- sweater weather  
> \- genie in a bottle (featured)  
> \- life on mars?


End file.
